Dad
looked out the bedroom window and saw the couple walking over. He told me to hurry up and get his “gear” and since
he doesn’t kid around about that, I pulled up my closet rug, opened the trap door, and got his long, hard case and scurried
back to him.

“Get
downstairs with your Mother,” he said while screwing the silencer onto his rifle. Then, in a flash, he had on the scope,
slapped in the magazine, jacked one into the chamber, and slid the window up a couple of inches.

The
man and wife both looked up at the same time.He tossed the wine bottle; she,
the flower bouquet; and both pulled out their pistols.

Dad
dropped the woman with one shot just above her right eye and the man looked up, nodded, and holstered his gun. He turned and
walked back to his house, got in his car, and drove off.

Dad
saw the look on my face. “She’s the one I ratted on that got us in the program,” he said. “We’re
safe now. Her boyfriend is FBI and the one that placed us here.”

Minutes
later, the ambulance showed up and carted her body off and the next day, the moving truck came and loaded up.

Dad
didn’t say much but I knew he wasn’t looking forward to sending Mom out again to check the new neighbors when
they finally moved in.

“Honey”
& “Darling”

by Paul Beckman

I hear them whispering to each
other over dinner. My dining area backs to theirs and for some reason, in one small section
of the wall I can hear everything. I found it by accident with one of the previous tenants.
Perhaps when the building was built, the insulation was left out or the builders did something
intentionally to cause this.

It only works one way—them to me—I’m sure of that
and would bet my life on it after living here through four other tenants.

He calls her “Honey,” and she calls
him “Darling,” and their mailbox name slot is blank. They are cautious and only talk to each other in whispers.
Obviously they must know that the walls in the building are thin but they can’t know how thin in this one spot. I might
as well be in their room with them. I keep my table next to the wall and eat my dinner when they have theirs, listening to
them share their days’ experiences and more.

I heard Honey tell Darling about a company that
her company was about to buy so I bought stock and made several thousand dollars. She’s the boss’s secretary.
Another time she told him about a stock that was about to tank and I shorted it and made even more. There have been others
and I don’t go crazy on these tips because I’m not greedy and don’t want to bring suspicion down on my head.
Besides, they keep coming.

Darling is a gangster. He lends money, breaks legs, pulls heists and
worse. He tells Honey everything. I hope to write a gangster book one of these days so I keep my laptop on
the table during dinner. At times I’m so busy listening and writing, my meal gets cold.

At dinner this evening, I listened
as Darling said that he had to leave for a bit and take care of a problem. “I have
to squash a bug,” he said, “but I won’t be long,” and I heard him
push his chair back and walk to the door. I heard the squeak of it opening.

Then, I heard a knock on my door.

Finally a Mother
Daughter Conversation

by Paul Beckman

“If you're going to slit your wrists, do it the right
way,” Bette’s mother told her.

“If you lay in a tub and blade across the wrist, of course you'll
get blood and sympathy. If you do it the right way, cutting the vein top to bottom, you’ll still get blood and
sympathy, but you'll also get peace and resolve.

“Decide
what you want, because I’m tired of having your stomach pumped only to find Tylenol,
when there is plenty of Oxy around. I’m sick to death of these bathtub razor skits
and far from impressed at your jumping onto the tracks of a subway, when there’s more than enough time and people
to save you.

“Do you understand? If you want to yell ‘Help,’
and you mean it, then do so and your father and I will put you in the best facility to help you. Otherwise, go about a normal
life, or do the deed right.”

Bette, her nineteen-year-old daughter, nodded and left the
room, returning from the kitchen with a long, thin deboning knife.

She sat across from her mother, passing the knife from hand
to hand while her mother cautioned her about getting blood on the white furniture and carpets. “At least let me get
you some plastic sheets,” her mother said.

“Goodbye,
Mother,” Bette said. “I wished you’d have kept me home and not in boarding
schools. And I wanted so badly to have mother-daughter talks about boys, and school, and
getting my first period, but you were off traveling, and I was only a vacation visitor with an open bank account and no-limit
credit cards to be the good little girl and not bother you.”

“Nothing
ever satisfied you,” Bette’s mother said. “Nothing at all.”

“This will.” Bette lunged forward with the knife,
twice plunging it into her mother’s chest.

And
against everything she believed in, her mother stained her precious white carpet and couch
red.

Long Story for the New
Bride

by

Paul Beckman

“Here
we are, out of money, low on gas, down to our last few packages of Little Debbie’s,
and now the radio gives out. Pull into the next gas station or convenience store we see,
and I’ll change our luck and theirs.”

“Fill the tank with high test and I’ll go take care of the
rest,” I tell my wife, actually my new bride since we’re officially on our
honeymoon.

I grab a hand basket and load
up on Cokes and Dr. Peppers, Little Debbie’s, premade sandwiches, and when I fill
the basket, I put it on the counter and tell the pimply faced clerk, “Give me a carton
of Kools and one of Chesterfields,” and then I begin loading the other basket with
pretzels, prepackaged bologna and ham, hamburger rolls, mustard, and anything else that
catches my eye.

I walk back to the counter holding
this basket with two hands and say, “Bag these for me, Buddy.”

“I’ve got to ring
‘em up first,” he says.

“No. You don’t have to do that,” I tell him.

Licking his nervous lips, he asks why not,
and I tell him that I have no money, and since I don’t want to hurt him or anyone
else, he should just be a good boy and do as I tell him. I reach behind my back, under
my coat and pull out a pistol.

Without hesitation, Pimply Face takes a basket, walks around the
counter, and goes and puts everything back, and comes for the second basket.

“Sure do, but I know you have no plans for using it, and by the
way, I turned off the pump before it hit six dollars, so you owe me six dollars worth of
labor in return. Grab the mop and bucket and take the key to the bathrooms and clean them.
If you do a good job, we’ll call it even for the gas. If you don’t, then we
take other measures.” He points to a closed-circuit TV on the wall where there’s
a man sitting with a shotgun looking down at them both. “Other measures like meeting
my father.”

“What took you so long?”
my bride asked. “Where’s the food?”

“Long story,” I say. “Long story.”

Holiday
Shopping

by Paul Beckman

Call me a sentimental fool, but if you know
what’s good for you, you won’t leave out the word “sentimental.”

I talk tougher than I am. Some people believe
I’m connected, made my bones and all the rest that goes along with it, but truth
be told, I’m only a hustler and one without a conscience. I’ll watch an ATM
until an old lady or a really old man makes a withdrawal and sees where they stash the
money and follow and take it sounding all Brooklyn when I demand it and show my shiv. Old
people are more afraid of a knife than a gun. It’s the pain thing because everyone’s
been cut with a knife and few geezers carry a bullet hole.

I’m out today getting money for a V-Day present for Roxie. She
thinks I’m out selling insurance and in a way, that’s what I do. I’ve
clipped two purses and lifted a box of chocolate covered cherries—her favorite.

I saw a gold heart on a chain in Walmart
that would be perfect. It’s very stylish, with the heart being thin and long pointing
down to cleavage and Roxie is nothing if not proud of her cleavage. I need one more score
to get the $75 to buy this. I asked the saleslady to hold it for a couple of hours. “I’ll
let my replacement know about this and you.”

I head over to my “go to” joint for easy money, the supermarket.
Ladies push their carts around with their pocketbooks in the baby carrier open so they
can get at their coupons. They’re always turning their back and the best spot is
the deli section when they’re trying to get the ham sliced thin enough to read through
and taking a taste of everything they order. A free lunch, they think, but I show
them there’s no such thing.

I
got two wallets in a matter of minutes and headed back to Walmart. A different saleswoman
was there and asked if she could help.

She kept staring at me and smiling. “Oh the heart,” she
said. “It’s so lovely that two other people asked for it, so I put it in the
back room for safekeeping.” She patted my hand that was on the counter and told me
she’d be right back.

She was back in five minutes, which I guess to an old fossil like her
was right back, and she offered to wrap it and I said, “Sure,” and I paid with
my wad of bills and before she had finished wrapping, I had my arms twisted behind my back
and handcuffs slapped on.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” she said. “We met earlier
this morning outside the bank where you stole my money I was going to buy my granddaughter
a Valentine’s present with. I’m sure she’ll love this heart,” she
said as the detectives led me away.

I was called in for my annual review last month, and I knew it was
going to be deadly because my work output is meager and of poor quality. The company changed
systems and I can’t grasp the new one. I didn’t wait for my big shot boss to
get off his “sorry to let you go” speech. I struck first.

“I saw you at the Hilton a couple of weeks ago,” I said, knowing
he’d be there from his email. “In case you saw me and wondered why I didn’t say
hello, it’s because I didn’t want to bother you and Mrs. Erskine. You were in
the corner of the bar and were talking and I figured that if you came this far away from
the office to confer, you didn’t need me interrupting. I was right, wasn’t
I?”

He stared at me, and I knew he
was trying to vaporize me with his eyes, but he’s not the big boss for nothing, because
he said, “William, you need to catch up on our new system. How about if I send you
to the company school for a week in Orlando?” He closed my file and forced a smile.

“Would I have time to
spend at Disney World or will it be 24-7 of classes?” I asked.

“I can arrange it so you stay at the hotel of your choice and
classes only four hours a day instead of full days. How does that sound?” he asked.

“Four hours every day?” I asked.

“No. No,” he said. “Just three days a week
for two weeks and weekends off. Of course you’ll have a pass to the Park and a company
credit card for meals and incidentals. You’ll come back all fired up and rested and
ready to bring your work up to par.”

“Am I in your office because my work isn’t up to par?”

“With the old system it would be, but
you need some fine-tuning on the new system, and you’re not alone in needing to catch
up, but since you’re a valued employee, we are using you to try out our new “catch
up” program. What do you think?”

“If it helps the company, then I’m all for it,”
I said and reached out my hand to shake his, but he couldn’t seem to unclench his
fist, so I did a two-handed shake around it and walked out of his office humming, “It’s
a Small World After All.”

Heist

by Paul Beckman

I’ve had enough. How much
can a person take? I’ll tell you how much. Use me for example, I can take a full
side of beef, a case of King Crabs, two large bags of rolls still warm from the baker’s
oven, and the daily newspaper lying in front of the store.

I can and did take that, except I forgot the newspaper,
I was so busy wrangling the side of beef into the trunk with my golf clubs and beach crap,
that I left it where it was thrown.

It was when I left the trunk open
and stooped to pick up the paper, that the cop came around the corner, and since he does
this as part of his rounds, five days a week, I was out of place and out of bounds. I would’ve
been gone and safe if I didn’t go back for the paper. Now I know why they say no
one reads the paper anymore.

I’m out of options. I have
one phone call and I don’t want to waste it on my wife who’ll just throw my
ineptitude up to me, and it’s too early to call a lawyer, so I think I’ll save
it for when I really need it.

“Guard,” I call.

“What is it?”

“Can I have today’s
paper to read?”

Movie Lesson
# 1

by
Paul Beckman

Grover
saw the man in the hat again.

At least, he
thought he did. He crossed the street and walked a bit, stopping every once in a while
to look in store windows, attempting to use them as mirrors, like in the movies; trying
to catch the man he was sure was tailing him.

It didn’t work; the
sun was too bright. He should’ve done this across the street, in the shade.

Quickly, he ducked
into a blind alley and realized it was a dumb move, so he turned around to leave and saw
with certainty he no longer had to worry about being followed.

Kiss Kiss

by Paul Beckman

Grandma will be wearing a mask when we visit, so don’t
you kids be alarmed.

How will
we know it’s Grandma under the mask?

It’s
just a mask that covers her mouth so she doesn’t breathe in germs.

Grandma’s
scary. Can we cover our eyes with a mask so we’re not afraid?

Is
she going to take off her mask when she gives us her squishy wet hello
and goodbye kisses?

No kissing this
time. Germs. Grandma’s now afraid of germs.

What about the money? Will she still give us money if she doesn’t
kiss us?

Maybe she’ll
say kiss, kiss and give you a check. She doesn’t touch money anymore, since she read
that money’s covered with germs from many people.

Can
we wear masks too? We can say kiss kiss and hand her pictures we’ve
drawn.

Is she going
to cook that stew again she always cooks?

No. We’ll
stop at a restaurant before we go to her house and get lunch. We’ll bring her lunch
with us from there, also.

You can show
her your pictures, but if she’s not wearing doctor’s gloves, she won’t
touch them. Remember, say hello and then go out in the yard and play, and I’ll come
get you when it’s time to leave.

Why
don’t we stay home, and you tell grandma we’re waiting in the car, so
we don’t bring in germs?

If she doesn’t
see you, she probably won’t give you any money, and you know we’re broke and
need money.

Can’t you
just tell that to grandma?

No. grandma likes
to play this game so we have to go along with her.

Do you
still want me to go into her bedroom and look for jewelry?

Yes. Remember, only one piece and try to remember that it should have
diamonds.

What about me?
What should I look for?

Look for cash
in the usual places. Under the mattress, in her underwear drawer—poke around the
room and if you find any, take it all so she’ll think she forgot where she put it.

When
I was four years old, I got a beautiful bald baby doll for my birthday. My
father brought it home from a business trip to Europe. My seven-year old sister
Doris wanted to play with her but I wouldn’t allow it. A couple of weeks later,
Bald Baby Doll disappeared from our vacation trip to the mountains and I never
saw her again and I wouldn’t play with any other dolls.

Last
week, our families, after years of estrangements, were together for Christmas,
and Doris gave me an identical Bald Baby Doll. She said she’d been looking for
one for the past forty-plus years and finally found one on eBay.

Tearing up, I hugged Bald Baby and went off to be alone. I noticed
a little bit of red nail polish on two of her toes and remembered I had painted Bald Baby’s
toenails and parts of her toes with Mom’s nail polish. When my husband came up to
bed, he teased me for sleeping with a doll at my age.

Early the next morning, I was sitting with Doris’s four-year-old
granddaughter, Dory, on the top step of the stairs. I was painting her toenails bright
red. When I finished, I kissed her cheek and told her we should stand on the step on our
tip toes, and bend over and look at her bright shiny nails.

I held on to the railing.

An Editor’s Rejection Mistake

by
Paul Beckman

I’m
having a bad streak of luck—another story rejected today. This was a sure thing
so all I can figure is the editors have it out for me.

I’m Mikey “the Blade” Morgan, six months out on
parole when this story came back. Not even an attaboy or personal note. It was the standard
fuck you—your story doesn’t fit into this issue at this time but consider buying
a subscription or hire our editing service. The Editors.

Write what you know and I did. I
wrote about slicing a guy open because he didn’t pay the vigorish he promised
me last week. My character, Slim Tim, broke into the weasel’s house and took
everything of value, filled a pillow case, and poured himself a glass of rotgut
bourbon and sat in the comfortable leather chair to wait and then dozed off.

Jimmy
“the weasel” woke him closing the door when he got home about
midnight and Mikey confronted him and got his attention by pushing the button on the switchblade.
In out in out in out.

I
was waiting in Editor’s house drinking Chivas when he got home. His wife went
up to the bedroom and Editor went to pour himself a drink. I was standing in
the shadows holding the bottle.

“The Weasel” swore he’d have the
money in two days and Slim Tim glared at him pushing the knife button so the
blade went in and out. “I swear on my children On my wife On my mother I’ll
have the money in two days.”

“You have two minutes,” Slim
said wiggling the blade under the Weasel’s chin.

“Who
are you?” Editor asked and I told him and I let him know that like my character,
Slim Jim, I had no conscience and didn’t think much of his rejection letters
and rejection in any form.

“Maybe
one of my interns made a mistake,” Editor said. “They’re always fucking
up. Come into my study and I’ll pull it back up on the computer and take another
look-see.”

“Hey,
Mikey. This is a fine story. I don’t know what that bitch was thinking about.
I’ll add it right now and call it our feature story of the month. Whaddaya
think? Sound good? Say, would you pour me a drink while I insert your story.
I’m also sending you an acceptance letter asking to see more of your work.
Sound good, Mikey? All good, huh?”

Slim flicked his blade in Weasel’s
nostril and the blood gushed. “Feel like Jack Nicolson?” he asked. Then he
slashed Weasel’s bicep and Weasel began begging, making quite the racket, as he was
crying. “I’ll give you the money,” Weasel said. “It’s in the kitchen, in
the refrigerator freezer. Cold cash. Okay? Like that—cold cash? Get it?”

Weasel pulled
the cash from behind the Hungry Man TV dinners and held it out to Slim just as Mrs. Weasel
who’d been awakened by Weasel’s screaming and crying stood watching in the
doorway. As Slim held his hands out for the cold cash after putting his blade down on the
table Mrs. Weasel, with a two-handed police stance holding her 9mm Beretta took
out Slim with a double tap right above his ear.

“There,”
Editor said. “Take a look. How do you like it—framed right on page one? It’s
a beaut and my readers are going to love your story.”

As Mikey was looking at the large display on the desktop, he thought
he saw a reflection on the screen of a woman in a nightgown holding a rifle.

We’re walking down the street, bumping hips, a
hand in each other’s back pocket, and life is good and has been, since we met
on the Greyhound last week.

Becky wanted a burger, so we left the idiot box
on at the motel and strolled down Rt 1 until we saw a sign in the window of The
Widowmaker’s Bar & Burger Joint, so in we went and had beers and burgers,
and they were some fine burgers, big and juicy, and we both got ‘em with lots
of fried onions, and they didn’t have fries but came with big ripple chips and
bread and butter pickles.

It was kind of quiet, and after we took a table, I walked
over to the bar, got our beers, and the bartender took my order. He gave a whistle when
they were done, and I took the plates to the table and brought our glasses back and got
another pair of beers.

We were almost to our room, walking through the motel parking lot,
kicking up the stones, when a door opened, and this bruiser comes out, yelling that we
were kicking stones at his truck and scratching it.

We wouldn’t do that,
I told him, and he asked, was I calling him a liar, and I said I wouldn’t do that
either, and he said, so you were kicking stones at my truck, and I could tell he was drunk,
and a mean drunk to boot, so we kept walking, and he yelled for us to stop, and I guided
Becky over to our room and unlocked the door, and quick locked it, and we
looked at each other and shrugged, and we both knew we dodged a bullet, and
then the mean drunk kicked our door open with one kick.

We didn’t have a back door, and
I told Becky to go lock herself in the bathroom and try to crawl out the window and get
some help, and I said howdy to the mean drunk, and he took two steps in and tossed
me around like a rag doll, and then he belched and fell over on our bed and
went to sleep.

I whispered Becky out of the bathroom, and we got our
stuff and started walking away from the motel, and drunk guy’s door was open, so
I peeked in, saw his keys and wallet, and we had ourselves a ride to the next town and
a couple of hundred dollars and two credit cards to boot.

We ditched
the pickup when the sun was coming up and walked back to the Greyhound station we’d
passed and bought two tickets to New York, and had an hour wait, but just before the bus
pulled in, the drunk guy blasted through the waiting room door, gun in hand and shot Becky.

She was hurt bad but still alive, when he told me to
give him his keys and his wallet and tell him where his truck was.

I did all
that and then I saw the bullet coming at my head in slow motion and heard the noise, and
that’s the next to the last thing I saw.

In his younger years
Paul Beckman was a numbers runner, a fence, and hung around with the bad crowd.
He still hangs with a dubious crowd.